Home
by AnnieXMuller
Summary: She throws herself through the open door, and into the warm, brightly-lit loft. She falls into her father's open arms, Monkey Bunky clasped in one of his hands, until she is tucked safely against him, wrapped in his secure embrace. **Post-ep for Target.** Now a multi-chapter ass-kicking Alexis fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Post-Target. Pre-Hunt. **

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Alexis is bound now, her calves pressed so hard against the legs of the wooden chair they threw her down on that she can feel every sharp edge through her jeans. She wiggles against the splintered edges, praying it might be enough to cut through the tape, but the more she shifts her legs the more intense the burning pain becomes. She stops, for a moment, to take a breath, to find her peace. The tape is wound so tight around her ankles her toes feel numb. Cold, so cold. They removed her boots, she realizes, as she struggles to wiggle her toes, to force the blood to circulate. She'll need those toes, she'll need her feet, when she breaks free from these restraints and runs.

And she will. There's no other choice.

Hands tied taut behind her, it makes her arms ache; her wrists are criss-crossed, pulled back so tight her shoulders feel like they're one sharp movement away from being dislocated.

She ran once, so they've stripped her of just a little more freedom. She's too sharp for them, she knows. Too savvy, too skilled.

But they've made a mistake. They may have knocked her out when she struggled too forcefully, they may have gagged her and bound her, but her mind is clear now - and that makes her dangerous.

She works on the gag, on the thin piece of duct tape slapped across her mouth. The tape they applied with a calloused hand, hard enough to shake her up, right before a blow to the head removed the fight from her completely. Her shoulder blade burns from her efforts as she tilts her head until her cheek rubs against her shoulder. With each sweep of her skin against her sweater she eases a loose corner of the tape away from her mouth. The roughened wool catches the adhesive side of the tape, and it begins to pull away.

Her neck is killing her, she can feel her muscles growing stiff from her efforts, so she switches sides, little by little she works her neck, her shoulder, lifting away the other end of the tape.

She can't focus on the pain, can't focus on how her muscles scream so loud her ears ring. She cannot allow the distraction to slow her down.

With no fluttering of material against her lashes, no feeling of compression around her skull, she knows the room is simply dark, her captor's not allowing her the comforting glow of a lamp this time. They must know she would have found a way to shuffle herself and the chair over to it, would have kicked it over, used the broken shards to rub through the tape.  
The room feels different this time too, smaller. The air is thicker, warmer; she calms her breathing as she rubs the tape against her shoulder, conserves as much oxygen as she can. Just in case...

Her hands are not idle. She had curled the fingers of her left hand up, until her fingernails made contact with the tape. She picks at it, scraping her recently manicured nails over the thick surface as though she is itching herself raw. Her nails drag across the grey tape (Is it grey? She thinks it might be. Isn't it always a metallic kind of color?) concentrating on one area, rubbing and picking and weakening the threads.

And it all aches so much.

The pain makes her falter, slows her down, sets her back. She clenches her teeth, but as she tenses up it only slows her pace further. She's inching through this when she should be free already.

She slams her eyes shut, and in her head she runs back home. She throws herself through the open door, and into the warm, brightly-lit loft. She falls into her father's open arms, Monkey Bunky clasped in one of his hands, until she is tucked safely against him, wrapped in his secure embrace. She breathes a little slower as he calmly rubs her back; she won't cry. He pulls back, takes in her appearance, and in his eyes she watches his broken heart begin to mend. He soothes the dry, red, raw skin around her wrists with balm, gently places a band-aid, first one, then another, on her ankles to fix the hurt.  
(It's not the same as the adhesive of the duct tape, she convinces herself; the band-aid sticks to her with love, it adheres to her pain, pulls it all away, and heals her fears)  
He makes it all better with one final kiss to her cheek, freeing her mouth of the gag, letting her breathe deeply again.

Home. There is no where on Earth she'd rather be right now.

He leads her to the kitchen, smiling and joking, and moves around preparing breakfast while she sits on the stool and just watches. She giggles as he flips a pancake, smiles as they are dished onto a plate and pushed towards her. Smiley face pancakes.  
She is poised to take a bite, when she freezes in horror, watching silently as the smiles fade from the pancakes, the chocolate rearranging, becoming a thick black sludge. A line of red runs from the chocolate eyes, leaving a bloody trail of tears down the now-soggy mess on the plate. The mouth turns down, until her once-smiling breakfast gazes sadly up at her, pleading with her _why_? Why Sara? Why Paris? Why was she taken? Why, why, why?

She lifts her gaze up to meet her father's eyes, but he stares vacantly back at her now. He doesn't see her anymore, and when she calls to him it elicits no response. Hollow eyes look past her, her father an empty husk of who he once was, forever changed because he lost her.

A vision of a man who never got his daughter back.

She snaps back, opens her eyes in the darkened room, and inhales a sharp breath. She can feel skin - her skin - beneath the tape binding her wrists. She is making progress, she is breaking through.

The pain, her location, none of it means anything anymore. She can do this, she has to do this. She will free herself, get out of there, find Sara, get them both back home.

Because the consequences of failing... No, that must never become a reality.

* * *

_Thoughts?_


	2. Chapter 2

**_Thank you to Ky and Brooke, who helped me find the words when my brain was failing me._**

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_"Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars."_

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Her forehead itches, burns a little, there's a pounding behind her eyes that reverberates through her entire skull - but she can't focus on any of that right now. With a long, hard, final scrape of her fingernails she feels the last of the threads give and she breaks completely through the tape around her wrist.

Her skin pulls at the tape across her mouth as her lips try to force their way up into a smile. This feels like a victory, and she can't keep the frustration from seeping in as the tape restricts her from whooping in joy.

More determined than ever, her fingers find the end of the tape confining her wrists, and she begins to work at it. She picks it back with chipped, jagged nails, bit by bit, pushing down the frustration and allowing the surge of hope to course through her as the adhesive surface lifts from her skin.

She twists her hands, squirming within the bonds, the tape giving way just a little more with each tug.

Pain shoots up from her wrists, close to breaking them as she strains to get free, it fires up her arms to her protesting shoulders, and she whimpers into the gag as the pain increases. Just when she thinks she might actually fracture her own wrist, she feels it - _liberty_. Her wrist pulls from the other, and with a delighted grunt of surprise, muffled by the gag, she brings both hands around to her lap, and flexes her fingers. She doesn't waste time to fumble with the tape still clinging to her wrists, her hands are free, and that's enough.

With shaking hands, she eases off the tape that covers her mouth, her lips tingling as it pulls at them. She bunches it up into a tight ball and heaves it across the room, a baseball pitch, a changeup. Her shoulder cracks in protest, but it feels so good to breathe through her mouth again she doesn't care. She licks her dry lips, feeling a little of the adhesive still stuck to them.

Next, her feet. She leans forward, when a wave of dizziness washes over her, stilling her as she sucks in a breath. The pounding in her head increases, and she straightens her spine in the chair and raises a hand to the source of the pain. Her fingers brush her forehead, skim across the itchiness just above her temple, and she feels it - the dried blood, clinging to her skin, matting strands of hair to her face. With careful fingers she feels for the gash, but it doesn't feel too bad beneath her touch. Just enough to knock her out, and bleed a little, leave her with a pounding headache and a bit off-balance. Alexis remembers her last concussion well. Little League and a rogue bat. The first and last time her dad ever let her play. She leaves her hair glued to her forehead, doesn't disturb the cut further; she'll worry about that later, another item added to the growing list of things to worry about _later_. Leaning forward once more, she finds the end of the tape binding her legs, and unravels it, freeing herself completely. Rotating her ankles, wiggling her toes, she calms the pins and needles tingling in her feet.

"Dad, you're going to be so proud of me," she whispers as she stands on wobbly legs, carefully testing out her balance. She stumbles slightly, and reaches out blindly to grasp hold of the chair to keep from falling. She's still a little light-headed, but sharp as ever. She breathes deeply, in through her nose, out through her mouth, closes her eyes, and calms her body. The room is dark, blacker than anything she's ever experienced. With small, shuffling steps, she raises her aching arms out in front of her, and moves cautiously forward. Somewhere there is a wall, and walls have doors. Her fingers touch it, the smooth surface of the wall, and she flattens her palms against it. She moves around the room, her palms on the wall, sliding along, holding her breath as she waits to feel the change of texture beneath her palms. All the while she remembers, how many shuffled steps it was to the wall, how many steps she is now taking around the room, creating a map in her mind, a trail of breadcrumbs back to the chair. She's simply testing her body now, exercising her muscles before she attempts to haul the chair to where she needs it. If she needs it at all.

Her palm slides up and over the cold metal surface of the door handle, and she freezes. She knows - every part of her _knows_ - it will be locked. It _has_ to be locked. But hope - as crazy as it might be - propels her. She sucks in a breath, fills her lungs until her chest feels it might burst, and pulls down.

The handle doesn't budge.

She exhales, sliding down to the floor in a crumpled heap. Tired, she's so tired. She's been drugged, knocked out, but hasn't _slept, _not properly, in... She doesn't even know how long. How much time has passed since they were snatched outside the hotel? Is it still daytime? How long has she been missing now? It would be so easy to give up, to stay curled up on the hard, dusty floor of this room - her silent tomb, her own personal catacomb - and give her aching body a chance to rest. Despondent, she blinks slowly, losing the battle to keep her eyes open.

"Stand up, Alexis," she tells herself, speaking out loud in the empty room. "You just clawed your way out of restraints! Don't. Give. Up."

It's so dark, it makes no difference, yet she opens her eyes, stays alert. She grits her teeth and pushes herself to her feet, groaning as her protesting muscles work against her. "They have to come back," she whispers. Her hands find the door once more, and she begins to trace her way back to the chair. "They have to come back." With each word she moves closer to where she started, inching her way back to the wooden chair they had thrown her unceremoniously into. They had tied her up, bound her to the splintered wood - but they haven't killed her yet. They haven't broken her.

She counts the paces, pushes away from the wall, shuffles back to where the chair should be...

Her fingers curl around the wooden back of the damn chair, and she hoists it up, carrying the weight of it against her hip. Sliding a palm against the wall once more, she moves with more confidence now. Her ears strain for any sign that her captors are returning, but the walls are too thick, the room too well sealed.

And, damn. She didn't think. She's smarter than this, but she didn't think...

Fingers tracing the door handle, she slides further across the door, searches for the _hinges_.

She lets the chair slide heavily to the floor, unable to carry its weight any longer. "Please, God," she prays quietly as her fingers desperately search the line where the door meets the wall. If it opens outwards she doesn't stand a chance in Hell of a surprise attack. But if she's in the same building, then she pleads with Fortuna to be on her side, to have graced her with a door that opens in like the last room she was imprisoned in. The pad of her index finger hits a raised area. The hinge. _Inwards_. She lets out a whoosh of breath, chuckling softly, nervously, at her luck.

Standing behind the door, back flat against the wall, the chair rests on the floor at her feet, her fingers curled securely around the hard, solid, wood.

Poised to strike, she waits...

* * *

_**AN: So... This seems to be more than a one-shot. The Alexis in my head is in the mood to kick a little ass.**_

_**Quote at top is Emily Bronte.  
**_

_**Not convinced there's a lot of interest in a fic like this so reviews would be appreciated. If you're reading, let me know in the little box below.  
**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Note: There will be spoilers here if you haven't seen the Hunt promo and sneak peeks.**_

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She waits. She doesn't care how long it might take, she will be ready.

Her legs grow weary, her fingers loosen around the back of the wooden chair, but she resists her body's need to slump down and rest - not even for a little while.

Her knees wobble, her legs don't even feel like they're hers anymore; she feels disconnected from her own limbs, and it's unsettling. She was drugged, she reminds herself. For longer than anyone should be, but on someone so tiny such as herself the effects had to linger. Adding a concussion on top of that, and she's amazed she's standing at all right now.

She pulls herself back up to full height, her body having slumped more than she should have allowed it to. Her fingers tighten around the chair once more; she clings to it, her crutch - all that's keeping her upright.

She listens.

Nothing.

She licks her dry, cracked lips, desperate for a bottle of water, presses her ear to the wall, narrows her eyes as she strains to hear.

Silence, beyond the door.

It stretches.

It feels like an entire day passes before she hears the footsteps approaching, but time passes so slowly in this dark, empty room, that it could have been less than an hour since she first positioned herself behind this door. Her fingers grip the chair harder, her broken fingernails pressing sharply into the solid wood. She inhales a breath as a key is slipped into the lock; she will only have one shot at this, and this chair is heavy and her body is weak. The swing has to count. She shuffles away so not to be hit by the opening door, heaves the chair up, and prepares her eyes for the light that will soon spill into the room.

And then it happens, too fast. Her actions, the man, it's all such a blur that later she'll have no recollection of how she managed it at all. The door opens, a lone figure enters, and she swings.

Wood connects with his solid back, but it's enough to throw him off balance, send him to his knees as a grunt of surprise leaves his mouth. She stands in shock, open-mouthed and terrified, her arms aching all the way from her wrists to her shoulders from the impact. She needs to move, to sprint past him and out the open door, but he's already pushing up on his knees, moving to stand again. There's not enough time now, she won't have enough of a head-start, and so with a whimper she does the only thing that makes sense to her in this moment. She swings again. The side of the chair impacts with his head, and he drops heavily back to the floor. She drops the chair, a leg splintering off as it hits the ground, both her and the chair weakened from striking a man twice.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice - her entire body - shaking from the adrenaline. "Please don't be dead." She reaches out slowly, carefully, feels for a pulse on the man's neck, exhaling a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding as she feels the beat beneath her fingers. She sobs out another "Sorry", and then another, her fingers diving into his jacket pocket as she repeats the word. She closes her fist around a set of keys, tugs them out. She feels for his cellphone, finds it; no passcode needed, she logs into Skype once more, but her father won't answer. _Why won't be answer?_ She has little time for this; she cannot carry the phone with her, her captors will track her too easily. Sliding her ring off her finger, she places it on the floor, where the light from the hallway hits it, she remembers the country code, dials her home number, and prays her Gram - prays someone - is there to answer it. She positions the phone quickly on its side on the floor so the ring can be seen, grasps the broken chair leg in her hand, surveys the hallway outside quickly, and then bolts down it.

It's not the same. The corridor is different, but she thinks it's the same building, perhaps just a different floor. How many floors up is she now? She runs barefoot down the hall, pushes through the door to the stairwell, and thunders down the stairs, her free hand skimming the banister as she descends. She clears the landing in two strides, and begins to descend the next set of stairs, when she stops; clinging onto the banister to stop her in her tracks, her momentum almost sends her head-first down the concrete stairs. There, on the landing before her, Sara's motionless body lays crumpled and bloodied.

"Sara?" She whispers, holding back the sob of terror. She steps slowly down the stairs, cautious of who may be waiting around the next corner. "Sara?" But she sees, as she reaches the last step, that it's no use. Sara can't hear her. The wound on her temple is small, but effective. They took her out with one bullet, left her crumpled and lifeless on the landing.  
She hesitates a little longer, resisting the need to smooth Sara's hair from her face, close her open, lifeless eyes. But she can't; she knows.  
Sara's body only fuels her determination further. If they no longer had any need for Sara, does that make her next? Was the man entering the room to kill her as well? She steps carefully over Sara's crumpled form, steadies herself with a deep breath, with a quick, silent, pep-talk, and continues on. She will remember, later, when she's free, she _will_ remember and lead the authorities back to Sara. And then she will accompany her friend home.

_Home._

She moves quickly down the floors, passing level after level, just needing to reach the bottom, to step out into the street, leave this damn building behind her.

And then, there are no more floors. The stairs level out, and a closed door faces her. She lowers her hand on the handle, closes her eyes for a moment as she prepares herself for what lays beyond. More corridors? A basement? A parking garage? Freedom? She pushes down on the handle, and slowly opens the door.

It opens outwards, and a lobby greets her. Dark, and empty, construction materials scattered before her. She grips the chair leg tighter, wielding it like a sabre, ready to attack.

The exit is in her sight, one of the keys on the set she pilfered from her captor must open that door- if it's even locked. She steps forward, the stairwell door closing behind her.

But it's all just too easy.

A hand grasps hers, another yanking the chair leg from her own firm grip, and it's so fast she barely has time to blink before she's being whirled around and dropped to the floor. She lands hard, the wind knocked out of her as her back thuds against the concrete floor, her head falling back from the impact. Stunned, she rolls onto her stomach and gasps, sucking air into her lungs. She isn't given time to recover. Strong arms take hold of her, yanking her to her feet, pulling her to the elevator and shoving her inside. More hands take hold of her. How many were waiting in the elevator? She tries to wiggle free, to break out of the embrace, but it's no use. The keys are snatched from her pocket, two men hold her while another frisks her for anything else she may be hiding. The elevator stops, and they drag her out, her body fighting them the entire way, never making it easy for them, not even for a second.

Another room. Another prison. And this time, as they shove her into a metal cage, locking the door behind her, her voice hoarse from screaming help, her head throbbing, already feeling the bruises on her arms and ribs from their hold on her, she understands. They want _her_. She was the target.

She silently prays that the cellphone she left in the room was answered, that a location was pinpointed, and they know where she is - that help is coming.  
Because without that last sliver of hope, she has nothing.

Alexis sinks down to her knees, closes her eyes, and lets a soft sob out. She's tired. She can't hold it in anymore. She drops her head into her hands as the tears fall.  
If she gets home, if she gets out of this hell and sees her father again, she's moving out of the dorm. She's moving back home. Forever. Just like Gram. She might even take a semester off. Stay home. Play laser tag, and poker. She'll fence more, and maybe take up kickboxing. But most of all, every chance she gets, she'll curl up next to her father, and watch endless movies on the couch, tossing popcorn at him as he mocks the screen.

If she gets out of this, she may never leave her father's side again...

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**_AN: I'll admit when I added the second chapter I planned to get her out of the building. But canon has a way of reining me in. So into the cage she went. _**  
**_This is it, there is no more. Reviews are love. Roll on Monday :)_**


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